


Gloria Regali

by Khione_North



Series: Kingdom of Winter (Fae AU) [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Angst, Blood Kink, Breeding, Changing Tenses, Come Eating, Come Inflation, Come Swallowing, Cunnilingus, Dark Consort G'raha Tia, Dark Faerie Tale, Death, F/M, Feral Behavior, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, I Screamed Like a Banshee, I laughed, Liberal Use of Scottish Gaelic, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Miscarriage, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Rough Sex, Shadow tendrils, Soulmates, Titania Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Tragedy, Violence, fae-u, i cried, soul bonds, will write for coffee
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:14:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26367022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khione_North/pseuds/Khione_North
Summary: Among the Fae of Il Mheg, it is said that the King was not always so cruel.  In fact, it is said that she was once a mortal woman considered a beacon of hope by many.
Relationships: Azem/Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Series: Kingdom of Winter (Fae AU) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917046
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32





	1. The Tale Begins...

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and welcome to fAeU! (Hehe get it? Get it?) ;)
> 
> If you're a writer and/or reader of FFXIV fanfiction, and you want more awesome content, come join us at [ Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Book Club!](https://discord.gg/ymjZVaf)
> 
> Thank you again for reading!
> 
> -Blue

Among the Fae of Il Mheg, it is said that the King was not always so cruel.

The stories told by the eldest of pixies, amaro, and Nu Mou alike speak of a mortal woman, brave and brilliant and beautiful of heart, who came to save their land from the eternal Light that threatened to kill their very star. She was a hero from another world, and where she walked, hope bloomed and Night blossomed. 

One by one, she felled the monsters called Lightwardens and freed the peoples of all the lands of Norvrandt from certain oblivion. She defeated Ancient sorcerers who longed for their lost home and would stop at nothing to bring it back into existence.

Nothing.

It is said that when her dying foe pierced her heart with his blade, she cried out for mercy, not for herself, but for the one she called ‘Beloved.’

In turn, he who was Beloved of the Shadowbringer called upon the King of the Fae, Titania, also called Feo Ul, and beseeched them to save his fading lover.

Feo Ul granted both wishes, but at great cost, for mortals were not created to wear the crown of the Fae. Thus did the mortal woman, the Shepherd to the Stars, the one called Khione North, become the mighty Cailleach-Titania, King of the Fae; and thus did her beloved, the Crystal Exarch, called G’raha Tia, become the shadow-wraith, the King’s dark heart, the Consort of the Fae.

And so, winter began.

Panic filled her chest. She couldn’t breathe. Too much pain. Raha. Where was— no. Please, please no. She had to stand up, she had to move, she had to get to him before the crystal overtook him because the container meant for his soul was shattered and she did not wish to imagine a life without him, not now that she had finally found him again and they were together and the edges of her vision were blurring, fading, darkening, so much pain, please, someone save him, whatever gods were listening, please, **_please_** don’t let him die.

A rough, burred, trilling voice called her name, and she was dimly aware of Raha saying something but she was too far gone, too lost in pain to hear, and then…

Something heavy was placed on her head and she could _breathe_ again, and the first thing she saw was his face, his beautiful face and he was breathing and smiling and she was alive but something was wrong. The pain was sharper and her body felt like it was burning and freezing all at once as though her very aether was being turned into something New and Other and a scream tore from her throat and magic exploded all around her and—

The King wakes from her nightmare in a cold sweat, chest heaving as eyes of living silver fly open.

Beside her, the Consort shifts, cracking open one glowing scarlet eye with a low noise of concern mixed with sleep.

“Nightmare?” he murmurs, enclosing her pallid hand in his own, his claws gently scraping her skin, anchoring her back to their bedroom beneath the winter stars.

“The same one as every year,” the King whispers in her voice like a banshee’s caress carried on frozen winter winds. She slips out of the bed, out of the Consort’s grasp, her bare, pale form illuminated and reflected by the bare, pale moon that hangs over Il Mheg. Perhaps there is some symbolism there, but she cares not to think on it.

A noise behind her tells her that the Consort has chosen to follow her as he always does when she slips away from his embrace like a cloud of fresh, powdery snow. This thought is confirmed when the solid, vibrant warmth of his body presses up behind her. He is hard against her backside, and though she knows that she is too volatile for such intimacy at the moment, she gives in to the urges of her body, turning to kiss him like it is the first time she has ever been aware of such desires. Even without words, he knows what she asks of him, anticipates it as he bends her over the desk that sits before the open balcony doors.

They do not waste time with foreplay. They have had these intervening years since their coronation to prepare themselves for the collision of their physical and aethereal forms. 

The Consort enters his King with a single motion, pressing deep, deep inside her until her body will allow him no further. He snarls, digging his claws into her hips as he fucks her with bruising speed and force.

Their coupling is quick and violent, and it succeeds in reminding the King of the fact that they are two hearts and two bodies and two souls, but one single unit that cannot exist without the other. Not anymore. 

The King does not mind this fact.

She climaxes, shredding the hands holding her hips with her own sharp claws while a wail is torn from her throat. The Consort does not last much longer, and he does not hold back his roar of satisfaction as he fills her. 

When at last they have both come down from their highs, the Consort presses a gentle kiss to his King’s neck, her temple, the corner of her mouth, and he carries her back to the bed.

“Do you wish to speak about it, [crown of winter]?” he asks, his voice gentle and loving, yet lined with a seductive darkness that the King has never been able to resist, even when they were still mortals on a faraway world.

She curls up with her head on his chest, stealing his warmth. Her fingers twine with his while she listens to the steady _thump thump thump_ of his heart.

“There is nothing to say about it, [dark heart],” she sighs, turning her head to kiss his chin. “It is the same nightmare as always. I am a mortal woman armed with naught but a staff and a weakened goddess’s blessing. You are turning into more crystal than man. My heart is pierced and I am dying. You call upon the reigning King to save us. They abdicate their throne in favour of me. And then…. Pain. This.”

The Consort nods slowly, his tail wrapping around her midsection. She takes a moment to admire the way his ears twitch and flutter when he thinks.

"Try to sleep a little more, [crown of winter]."

The King sighs, but obeys the command in her Consort's voice. He and he alone is allowed to do such, and who is she to deny him that?

“Happy Coronation Day, my beautiful Khione,” the Consort whispers as the King drifts back to sleep.

“Happy Coronation Day, my beloved Raha.”


	2. Tick Tock Goes the Clock

The Traveller cannot remember the last time she walked this world, any world, with her own two feet, her own beating heart, her own body. She cannot remember when last she felt wind dancing through her hair or the warmth of the Architect's hand holding hers. She cannot remember when last she did many more things, but this is how she now finds herself. Though this world, the one they call 'the First' is and is not her own, her soul has walked these lands while her spirit has slumbered, lending its power to innumerable heroes while her consciousness dreamt. She did not expect to ever be freed from her voluntary-involuntary service to the kind, cruel Mother Crystal, but she did not hesitate to accept when the jealous goddess offered her a new bargain: save the Warrior and her Beloved, and in return, the Mother would grant eternal rest in the Lifestream to the Traveller and the Architect _together_. The Traveller did not even need to think about it.

Such is how the Traveller now found herself, reunited with her own Heart's Echo after so many eons apart. Would that they did not have such a pressing objective, would that the Mother was not constantly whispering in their ears, urging them forward. The Traveller had always disliked the Mother, just as she had always disliked the Father; her dislike for both now bordered on extreme, but she was no fool, and she would not jeopardise the promise of an eternity with the Architect simply because of her own pride.

If only the Mother had given any sort of direction as to where to even start in this endeavour.

“You’re certainly quiet today, {Little Goddess},” the Architect hums, his voice dragging her Ancient mind out of its own depths.

The Traveller chuckles and blinks herself fully back to reality. They have reached the gates of the city known as The Crystarium. Neither are bothered by the guards who give them scrutinising looks. There is nothing about this pair that would raise suspicion. Their bodies appear mortal and unremarkable save for the fact that both are, to be frank, attractive. They do not wear their Ancient robes or masks. They are simply another couple travelling this newly-saved world, looking for a place to settle down.

They are allowed through the gates without any trouble.

The Traveller stops to admire the architecture for a moment. Though she and the Architect never went through any sort of official ceremony, they are as good as married, and when one is married (so to speak) to a man whose title is “Architect,” one tends to appreciate architecture often.

“I was beginning to wonder if you would show up,” a young, gentle, female voice murmurs. The Traveller turns to smile at the Oracle, giving the girl a respectful nod.

“Apologies for keeping you waiting, young Oracle. We encountered some difficulties while leaving The Tempest,” the Traveller chuckles. Her mouth is quirked in a kind smirk that is tinted with sheepishness. The Architect says nothing, for he is busy examining the Underworld as it flows above and around them all. The Traveller wonders what it is he is looking for.

“Oh, please, just call me Ryne,” the girl mumbles, fidgeting. The Traveller knows it is partially just an act to make them underestimate her. She also imagines that the Oracle is a little bewildered at seeing their faces in full. When last they had met, the two Ancients had worn their robes and masks, distinguishable from each other only by their difference in height.

“Ryne…. A good, strong name. It originated in a land of hills and mists and rain and cold. I was quite fond of that land.”

Ryne blinks at the Traveller with her brow furrowed. “What do I call the two of you? There wasn’t much time for formal introductions when….” The girl trails off, frowning at the memory.

The Architect answers first, giving the child an exaggerated bow. “There is no point in insisting you call me by my title any longer, so I suppose Hades is appropriate.”

The Traveller rolls her quicksilver eyes at her beloved. Hades has always been the more dramatic of the two of them, though he would tell you otherwise.

Ryne turns to the Traveller.

The Ancient sorceress curtsies deeply. Azeyma Roses bloom around her. She plucks one and tucks it behind the girl’s ear.

“I am Melinoia, Azem of the Convocation of Fourteen. Your friend once held my soul, as well you know, but…. Well, that is an explanation better saved for a more private setting where Fae agents cannot listen.”

The air in Melinoia’s peripheral vision shimmers and hisses as a lurking pixie disappears. She is not bothered by the knowledge that they will report back to their King. In fact, she is glad. She knows the King’s true heart, knows that the mortal soul buried beneath the Fae corruption will see it as a lifeline. She hopes it is enough to encourage the Warrior of Light to continue fighting. It has been two years to the day since Khione died and became Cailleach-Titania. Melinoia is determined to ensure that it will not be much longer than this.

Ryne leads them to the Crystal Tower. Melinoia is too busy admiring the way moonlight hits Hades’ snow-white hair to pay much attention to the courtyard they walk across. She also finds herself craving Vylbrand wine. Hades shamelessly steals a teasingly heated kiss before they enter the giant blue tower. Oh, she has missed him dearly, even though they have spent the past two years reacquainting their souls with their bodies, and their bodies with each other.

When the trio reached the Ocular, a small, pudgy Nu Mou waddled to greet them, bowing to Ryne.

“Och, there you are! I was wondering if you would ever arrive with our guests,” it snuffled, examining Melinoia and Hades closely. Melinoia tilted her head, curiously examining the creature in return. Hades simply looked bored.

“I presume you actually have a reason for calling us all the way out here?” her lover sighed, quirking an eyebrow at the Nu Mou. “We succeeded in sending the Scions back to the Source, so I don’t much see what more you pathetic creatures could possibly need from us.”

Melinoia shot him a glare and elbowed him in the side. “Hades, darling, play nicely. Just because you’re cranky doesn’t mean you get to be a shit head, you crotchety old man.”

Hades narrowed his eyes at her. She smiled back.

The Nu Mou nodded enthusiastically, waddling over to the looking glass-portal. “Yes, yes, thanks to you, Mistress Azem, the Scions’ souls were safely returned to their bodies, per Feo Ul’s report. I cannot thank you enough for your aid, given the chaos of that day.”

Melinoia’s lips pressed into a thin, grim line at the memory. She was still annoyed at having to expend so much power immediately upon waking up from twelve thousand-odd years of spirit slumber, but when 8/14 of your soul gets forcefully evicted from its host body by transformation into the Fae monarch, one really doesn’t have much choice. She was simply glad that Hydaelyn, the blasted crystal bitch goddess, had been kind enough to return to her the other 6/14 of her soul. The past two years had done nothing to dull her bitterness, though.

“I only wish I could have saved _them_ ,” she sighed, running her free hand through her messy hair. “It is a pity that the Mother did not think to wake me sooner.”

Ryne winced at that last part, shuffling awkwardly. Oh, the _wonderful_ stories Meli could tell her of the Mother.

Hades cleared his throat, tapping his foot impatiently at the Nu Mou.

“Yes, yes, it was very kind of Melinoia, blah blah blah, if you wished to waste time prostrating yourself at our feet for the hundredth time, you could have simply sent us a nice gift basket. I would assume that you, in all of your infinite magic and wisdom, know how to use the postal service, yes?”

He had a point.

The creature — Beq Lugg, if she remembered from the last time they’d met in this very room in this very tower — mumbled something, casting a pointed glance at Hades. Leave it to the snarky moron to forget how to properly keep a Nu Mou on track.

“Beq Lugg,” Melinoia said in a voice edged with command as she turned her polite smile to the Fae, “tell us why you have brought us here…. Please.”

Beq Lugg nodded and shuffled over to the desk they had placed next to the portal. They used a little stepping stool to climb up into the chair before grabbing some papers.

“The situation in Il Mheg has worsened exponentially,” they said. Their voice was grave and quiet — two years of constantly worrying about spies from the Fae kingdom listening unseen would do that to any creature, certainly. “Cailleach and Bodach are growing stronger. I know not how much longer Khione and the Exarch can hold out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the Introduction. I promise the chapters will get longer and more exciting from here on out! Stay tuned:)


	3. Moon Silver Eyes and Shadowed Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: Blood, violence, death, feral behaviour. This chapter is very NSFW. Enjoy~

The air tastes of steel and blood and ice as Cailleach surveys the carnage she has wrought. The blood of this latest band of would-be defenders paints the glittering snow a vibrant carmine. She looks to the Crystal Tower, gleaming far in the distance. She smirks, satisfied in the knowledge that she has now pushed her kingdom’s borders within sight of the wretched monument to the weakness of her mortal self. Soon. Soon, she will bring down the wrath of ice and a woman who gave _everything_ for these people, only to be forsaken at her dying hour.

Cailleach is not a particularly forgiving woman. Khione North was. It cost her everything.

Bodach is even less forgiving.

He has enjoyed himself; she can tell. He always does.

She enjoys watching him have fun with his prey. There is something beautiful about the way Bodach, her Consort, uses his staff and his claws and his fangs and his shadows all at once to cut down any who might stand in his King’s way. She wonders how the people of Lakeland feel when they see the familiar staff and crystalline arm of their vaunted Exarch destroying their home and their hope.

Cailleach looks to him and beckons him over. He disappears in a puff of shadow, only to remerge by her side, his Spoken hand brushing against hers. His shadows tickle her neck and ears lovingly, teasingly. She hums and straps her own staff to her back.

“You would think that these mortals would put up more of a fight,” she sighs, gesturing vaguely to the array of dismembered bodies impaled upon spikes of ice and shadow that surround them like a field of sunflowers. Bodach huffs a laugh. 

A soldier on the ground by the Consort’s feet moans. Bodach summons a dagger of shadow and stabs the mortal through the heart. Cailleach can’t help but be aroused when she watches her lover lick the blood from the blade of the weapon. 

She is preparing to pounce on him when a pixie shimmers into existence beside her, bowing low as it hovers by her other ear. She groans in irritation, her face a mask of frustration.

“What?” she hisses. The pixie has enough sense to bow low, uttering a string of apologies and prayers for mercy. Bodach wraps an arm around Cailleach’s hips, his hand resting low on her ass. She is still considering fucking him in the middle of this blood-stained field, especially when his claws dig into her. The pixie’s news halts that line of thinking.

“Apologies, my King, but I bring news from The Crystarium,” it trills, looking anywhere but at her. “They have summoned the Ancients.”

That certainly gets her attention. Bodach snarls. From the corner of her eye, Cailleach can see him straighten up his posture while his staff materialises in his hand. She marks the way he steps slightly in front of her. She can feel the intensity of his mind and aether roiling as he listens. 

“The Traveller and The Architect met with the Nu Mou traitor and the Oracle of Light earlier this evening.”

“Do you know why?”

The pixie pauses, its light flickering. Cailleach can feel her irritation rising to the level of true annoyance. Why were pixies always so useless?

“I-I…. Well, no. The Traveller sensed me.”

Cailleach snaps and the pixie turns to a statue of solid ice, falling to the ground and shattering.

She turns to Bodach with a frigid, angry expression.

“Fun time will have to wait, my [shadow prince]. Return me to the palace.”

They step through the fabric of shadows, exiting the dark mist into the pale, lifeless halls of their prison-home. Bodach does not stray more than a few ilms from Cailleach’s side. One hand grips his staff. The other holds onto Cailleach’s as though he is scared she will slip away if he lets go.

Cailleach leads him to the amaro aery. She is a miniature storm of rustling, fog blue silk and tinkle-jangling chainmail.

Bodach is more than content to let her drag him along. He is too busy seething at the thought of the Ancients coming to dethrone his King, too angry at the fact that his once-friends have now turned on them. The Ancients will try to kill her. He will be damned to all seven hells if he lets them succeed. He wonders what their blood will taste like.

When they reach the aery, Cailleach calls upon a younger female who is fast and strong and _loyal_. Cailleach trained the creature herself to infiltrate The Crystarium.

Bodach has reservations.

“How can you guarantee that this one will be able to gather the information we seek, [Little Monarch]?” His tail trails up her spine as far as it can go, and he leans in to put his lips to her ear. “You could always send me, my [dearest one]. Urianger left us a fair supply of white auricite. I’m sure I could make quick work of them bo—”

Cailleach’s hand is around his throat in an instant, squeezing the life out of him, drawing blood with the sharpened tips of her nails piercing the delicate skin while she presses his entire body up against the stone wall behind him with enough force to push back his hood and leave a dent in the wall. Even with part of his neck crystallised, the King is crushing the Consort’s airway. The Consort is painfully hard and painfully aware of the possessive, unnatural snarl that his beloved gives him when she scents his arousal. Her voice is a banshee’s wail on a blizzard’s breeze, ancient and youthful and beautiful and terrible all at once. 

“ _No! You will remain by my side._ ”

Something shifts in him at the edge of fear that lines her words.

It is all his mortal self needs to gain a few moments of clarity.

“Khi-Khione,” G’raha gasps, the edges of his vision darkening from the lack of air. The sound of her true name tumbling from his lips has the hand around his throat loosening just enough to allow him to breathe. His ears flatten against his head for a moment before perking up again. “Won’t leave you. Ever.” His Fae side wrests control once more.

Something like pain flickers through Cailleach’s eyes. Bodach uses the moment of weakness to grab hold of the King’s hand. Just as she has dug her claws into his neck and drawn blood, so too does he leave puncture marks just a few centimetres short of the arteries in her wrist. It is a simple manoeuvre for him to reverse their positions so that she is up against the stone wall with his knee between her legs and his mouth at her neck and throat. Her breathy gasps and moans send his ears flickering and fluttering and Bodach knows he has won a game he was not even aware they were playing until now, and Wicked White how is he even supposed to undo the chainmail top of her gown?

He does not get a chance to find out because the King drives the sharp heel of her boot into his foot and the pain is enough to make him jump back.

She is not amused.

“See to it that the amaro is sent off by sunrise. I am going to interrogate some of the prisoners we took.”

Cruel, wicked thing, his King, when she knows how much he adores interrogating uninvited guests. The Consort supposes that he deserves this punishment. It does not mean he enjoys it.

The King sheds her armoured gown the moment she reaches the dungeons. It reeks of arousal and desperation and desire. She needs to be clear-headed when she speaks to these ‘Night’s Blessed’ who dared to try to assassinate her after she took the Greatwood. 

The prisoners were obviously not expecting the King of the Fae herself to come to their interrogation, and certainly not as bare as her nameday.

Cailleach sighs and waves a hand over her body. A gown of pure snow materialises. So very prudish, these mortals. Was she like that, too, she wonders?

“I hope my guards are treating you all well?” she purrs, sitting on a chair just outside of the reach of the chains keeping them locked to the wall. Her smile is wicked and terrible and _cold_. She leans forward, resting her elbow on her knee. She looks almost like a curious child observing an animal in a menagerie. “I can have them bring you food and water, if you’d like?”

The prisoners blink at her, confused and frightened. She snaps her fingers, and servants roll in a cart of beautiful desserts and drinks. She can see the prisoners salivating when she takes a bite of a strawberry mochi.

“I’d like to have a little _chat_ with the three of you~” Cailleach hums as she licks powdered sugar from her fingers with seductive slowness. “We can do this nicely, or I can have a bit of fun. I’ll let you three choose.”

She doesn’t actually intend to give them a choice, but in the two years that she had been King, she has found that prisoners are more likely to talk if they think there’s hope of survival.

It is the male elf who speaks first. “W-Whatever you wish to know, Your Majesty, it is yours.”

Cailleach’s lips curl into a cruel, childlike grin. “Who sent you?”

“R-Runar, Your Majesty.”

Cailleach scoffs. Hundreds of icicles impale the elf. She was hoping for something fun as an answer.

“Are there any other assassins I should worry about?”

The dracht female pipes up next. The look in her eyes tells Cailleach that she knows exactly what her fate is, and that she simply wishes to be done with it. Smart.

“Four more, Your Majesty. Two tonight and two tomorrow night should the first two fail.”

Cailleach sits back, crossing one pale leg over the other as she gazes at the dracht with a slightly amused expression.

“What contact has the Night’s Blessed had with The Crystarium?”

“None! None whatsoever!” the hume male cries. Cailleach can smell the lie. She sends a shard of ice through his throat with half a thought. The gurgling sound he makes as he chokes on his own blood is horrific and amusing. The dracht woman winces, but maintains an overall straight face. It is a pity, Cailleach thinks, that she, too, will have to die.

“Captain Lyna recently sent her best covert operatives to meet with our leadership. I know not what they spoke of, but I know that they are planning something, given the failure of the past three assassination attempts, Your Majesty.”

She knows it is all the dracht can give her. She decides she will give the girl a merciful death in return as she stands and motions for the guards to leave the dungeons with her.

The room is coated in ice before the door even closes.

It is said that death by freezing is the most peaceful way to go. One simply falls asleep and does not wake again. Cailleach witnessed such deaths first hand in the year or two following the Calamity on the Source. Many good Ishgardians froze before her eyes. She does not know how it feels to die of hypothermia, but she supposes that if she ever has to choose a way to pass on, it will be like that. She doubts Bodach would let her die, though.

She turns her mind to her Consort, much of her earlier tension gone and her head a little clearer. She should not have been so rough with him earlier, though she does not regret her actions. Sometimes, it is necessary to remind him who actually wears the Crown.

She does not enjoy it, though. There is nothing about this mummer’s farce of an existence that she considers “fun.” She does not enjoy the way his smirk, which she loves so dearly with every onze of her frozen heart, makes her world tilt and blur with rage sometimes and drives her to cause him harm. She does not enjoy the constant _hunger_ in her core — hunger for what, she does not know. She does not enjoy the fleeting moods that spark and burn in her like a fire trying to ignite only to be doused in water.

Khione is so tired, down to her very soul, and with every passing day that she remains torn between the primal delights of the Fae and the dying hope of her mortal spirit, she finds it harder and harder to wake up. Most days, she simply allows Cailleach to take over because Khione has become far too weak to even fight.

Perhaps once she might have found cause for hope and optimism at the news that Azem and Emet-Selch were on the move once more, but it has been two whole years since The Traveller’s soul was ripped from her, leaving her without the warmth of its protection, and she is just _so exhausted_. She always fancied herself a fighter. In reality, she was simply a foolish, silly, prideful girl.

Cailleach slips back in to take her mind off of such dreary things.

The King meanders through the palace, unbothered by the cold that surrounds her. Her gown of snow melts away as she reaches her study. She can smell the Consort already inside, still stewing in his anger and arousal. Perhaps she will have mercy on him.

Bodach is leaning against a corner by the window that is hidden from the silver light of the pale, full moon. Cailleach cannot see his face, for he has pulled his hood up, but she knows that he is watching her as she prowls toward him with the grace of a lioness. She stops in a puddle of moonlight. She can feel the heat of his gaze as he slowly, lazily rakes it up her body, and she tilts her head back to give him full view of her pale, thin throat.

He is upon her in seconds, his tail wrapping around her thigh so as to keep her from running off again.

“Are you done teasing me, [crown of winter]?” Bodach purr-hisses against Cailleach’s neck. “Or am I going to have to tie you down and make you behave?”

Cailleach gives her beloved a wicked sneer while one of her hands sneaks down the front of Bodach’s trousers to cup him firmly. It earns her another hiss that sends shivers through her. 

She intends to make him fight tooth and nail for her submission tonight.

"Define 'behave,'" she hums. She continues massaging his straining cock with one hand, her other tracing a line down her lover's bicep with the sharp tip of her nail. She outright claws him across his tattoo when he moves to push her up against the windowed doors to the balcony, and dances as far away from him as she can when his tail releases her thigh in surprise.

The glint in Bodach's eyes is positively bestial. 

"That wasn't very nice of you, [Little Queen]," he snarls as he lunges at her. He succeeds only in toppling over a large vase of snow lilies. It enrages him more. He doesn't even notice when he steps on shards of jagged pottery.

This is their game, their constant dance; it has been such since long before their curse. He has always chased after her, reaching and clawing his way to her side. She has always remained _just_ out of reach until the very last second. G'raha Tia loved and hated this game. Bodach is no different.

The Consort waits until the King lets her guard down before he disappears in a puff of shadow and reappears under her. His hood falls back to reveal ravenous eyes as he grips her thighs with bruising strength to hold her in place once more while he attacks her centre with his mouth. He is unforgiving in his onslaught, spearing her with his tongue while shadows play at her bud and her breasts. His King is shameless in the lewd noises she makes as she trembles above him, begging him in languages dead and living to keep going. She tastes like snow and steel and something sweet that he cannot quite name and he is intoxicated by it, by the musk of the forest of dark curls that guards this sacred realm that he calls home. His cock aches from her earlier ministrations and denials, and he desperately wants to fill her with his release, but he is also so desperately hungry for her ecstasy, so ravenous for the mere thought of bringing his King to her knees from his tongue and teeth and fingers alone. He is grateful that he has always been very talented with these things.

Bodach drinks Cailleach's orgasm down with the fervour of a dying man at the Fountain of Youth. When she has finally spent herself, he bites his way up her pale legs, sucking marks on each of her thighs that bloom like dark roses in a field of snow. He could worship these legs alone for hours if given the chance, but there is so much more of his King to worship and revere, and he wishes to claim every ilm of her, to remind her that, though today is the anniversary of their deaths, it is also the anniversary of their new lives and their new strength. Somewhere deep in his soul, G'raha Tia gives a pathetic cry that is drowned out by Bodach's frantic thoughts of what he should do to his Crùn a ’Gheamhraidh next. 

Bodach presses one last kiss to Cailleach's slit before he stands to scoop her into his arms.

"Shall I fuck you tonight, my dear, or shall I love you?"

His arousal fades as he observes the tiredness in his love’s moonlight-silver eyes, and something aches in his chest that makes him want to shield her from the pain of her own heart and mind. He looks at her with an expression of worry and question. They do not need words. Not anymore. Not when their mortal spirits have quietly twined themselves together while their Fae spirits have wrestled beneath the sheets of their bed.

G’raha can feel Khione’s sadness in his very soul. It is a cold, small, lonely thing that wails at the centre of the storm that has always been her heart. For as long as he has known her, Khione has been a roaring tempest of emotions beneath the icy façade of a scholar’s disinterest. Now is no different, except that he fears she is slipping away more and more, curling in on herself while Cailleach rages and destroys all that was good and lovely in his Little Bird’s life.

He holds her close as he steps through the fabric of shadows and space, exiting in their beautiful, soulless bedroom. He sets her down on the bed gently and turns to her closet to find her a dressing gown. 

The navy blue silk he chooses reminds him of the first time he saw her hair in the Black Shroud while he watched her search for a bag of sand that he had hidden. He remembers nearly forgetting the prank he meant to pull simply because he was too distracted with watching the tiny sorceress in her long, royal-blue coat and the large witch’s hat she loved wearing. That witch’s hat survived until she faced Zenos, if he recalls her stories correctly. He promises himself that he will buy her a new one if they ever escape this curse.

Warm, tender, trembling, calloused hands carefully help Khione into the robe, tying the sash with loving delicacy. He climbs onto the bed behind her, spreading his legs into a V so she can steal his warmth while he cards his Spoken fingers through her hair to remove all the wild tangles. He sings for her while he braids her hair, old songs that his mother and father once sang for him in another life, centuries ago.

G’raha’s touches are reverent and soft as he runs his crystalline fingertips up and down Khione’s arm. He lets out a breath of relief that he did not realise he was holding when she relaxes back against his chest. He cannot help but chuckle when she reaches forward to pull the covers over them both, and it is almost as if they are not King and Consort of the Fae, but rather simply G’raha Tia and Khione North, a pair of mortal lovers enjoying a peaceful winter moon through the open doors of the balcony.

They cannot ignore the nagging of their Fae selves, waiting at the edges of consciousness for morning to come so the fun can begin again.

G’raha wishes he could protect Khione from the world, for he knows as well as she does that their days are most likely numbered now, with Azem and Emet-Selch on the way. He only hopes that the two of them are allowed to go together when the end finally comes.

He drifts off soon after that thought, holding his beloved sorceress close. He is oblivious to the itching in his back.

* * *

Melinoia knew she needed to sleep. Hades had already long since gone to bed, leaving her to pore over an array of scribbled notes and texts regarding Fae curses and how to break them.

She’d had a breakthrough earlier in the year, around about when Amaurot’s Midsummer Festival would have been before the Sundering and various other catastrophic events. 

_‘Curse born of fear + anger + sadness_ ,’ one note read. ‘ _Unravel tainted magic + emotions = unravel curse?_ ’ read another.

The Ancient cursed herself for having taken two years to reach such conclusions, but in her defence, cursebreaking had never been her strong suit. That had always been more of Hades’ and Lahabrea’s realm with their knowledge of darker magics. She had always preferred soul magic.

It made her eminently qualified to deal with the factors that had _caused_ Khione and G’raha’s curse, but how the bloody cart chocobo was she going to put her theories into practice when she couldn’t even step into Il Mheg without fear of death by million pixies?

With a groan, Melinoia slumped over, smacking her face on the open notebook before her. It granted her at least a small moment of clarity, if only because it got her thinking about various parts of the head.

‘ _The Crown of the Fae was never meant for mortals_ _— >_ _Too weak-willed…. Even Khione? Khione fear + anger + heartbreak at seeing G’raha dying/dead = tainted Crown magic = origins of curse? Khione curse_ _— > __way to protect G’raha. G’raha curse_ _— >_ _way to protect Khione. Prove one is safe, break curse on other._ ’

By the Star, how had it taken her so long to figure out something so stupidly simple and _mortal_?

“Hades!” she screeched, standing so abruptly that her chair toppled over. She vaulted over it with enthusiastic ease, pouncing on her sleeping lover like a child on Midwinter Morning. “Hades! Wake up, you lump!”

Hades grumbled and groaned, trying to pull her down to the bed with him. “Can this not wait until the morrow?”

“I’ve figured out how to break the curse!” She wiggled out of his reach and instead leaned over to grab his wrist and tug him out of the bed. Finally, Hades sat up and scrubbed at his tired face with tired hands.

“Melinoia Hecate Despoine, I love you dearly, but this really could have waited until the morning. It’s nearing two morning bells and you certainly need your beauty sleep.”

Melinoia shot him a glare and a pout that would’ve made Hythlodaeus proud. Hades simply flopped back onto the bed and rolled over so his back was to her.

Sighing, the Traveller moved to tidy up the desk and change out of her still-dusty travelling clothes so she could join Hades in bed.

She pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades as she snuggled close, freckled arms wrapping around his midsection to rest her hands over his heart. She chuckled when one of his hands covered both of hers.

“I’m sorry for waking you, dear,” she mumbled, playfully nibbling at the shell of his ear.

“No, you’re not, my darling Azem,” Hades grumbled, though his voice was tinged with a teasing lightness. “I can feel you vibrating with excitement, so go on, tell me what it is that you’ve figured out.”

Melinoia grinned against the familiar warmth of Hades’ neck.

“Well, as we all know, most of my soul was once One with Khione’s. This gave her Hydaelyn’s blessing due to my bargain with that tedious crystal bitch, and protected her from basically all corruption. We also know now that Khione actually _died_ for a few moments after her fight with Elidibus, as did G’raha a few moments later, but this was long enough for the pieces of my soul to separate from Khione’s soul, thereby taking away Hydaelyn’s blessing. Khione’s final thoughts as she was dying were filled with fear, abandonment, anger, heartbreak, and all manner of dark and negative feelings. My theory is this: When Feo Ul passed the Crown — which isn’t even _supposed_ to be worn by a mortal due to their weaker wills — to Khione and brought her back to life, Khione’s dark thoughts actually _tainted_ the Crown’s magic, creating the curse, which was born from her desire to save and protect G’raha. The curse was then passed onto G’raha when Khione used her new and very corrupted magic to reverse his crystallisation, except his curse is focused on saving and protecting her. I believe that if we can get through to the mortal spirit within G’raha and cleanse him of the curse, we can then convince Khione that he is safe and break her curse.”

Melinoia took a deep breath, still grinning. Hades was silent for a few minutes.

“I…. You’re suggesting we rely on the power of ‘true love’ to save those two fools and this broken world?”

“I mean, the power of true love saved you from being Sundered, and it’s the entire reason you and I are able to share this bed, so I don’t see why we can’t also use it to save Khione and G’raha.”

She didn’t even have to be able to see his face to know that he was frowning. She loved it when she outsmarted him.

“I suppose,” he drawled, turning over to face her, “you have a point, {Little Goddess}.”

“And what sort of reward do I get for being right this time, {Dark God}?”

His answering growl had her toes curling, and a delicious shiver ran down her back when she saw the pale light of the full moon reflecting in his wide-blown pupils.

“Well, {Little Goddess},” Hades crooned in a voice that was anything but gentle. Melinoia could feel a tendril of shadow wrapping around her leg, sneaking up under her blouse and into the top of her trousers to slip into her smallclothes. “I don’t think you’ve earned a full evening of play, but my shadows are a little hungry, and so am I.”

Melinoia stole a kiss, biting his lower lip hard enough to elicit another one of those beautiful growls from her heart-sworn. The shadow tendril skated over her clit to find her entrance, probing the wetness there.

“You’re being awfully patient, {Architect},” she hissed. Hades chuckled darkly and dipped his head to untie the top laces of her blouse with his teeth, leaving brilliant scarlet love bites along her prominent collarbone.

“Two years has not been enough for me to get my fill of you, {Most Dear}. I’m taking my time to ensure I re-memorise _every_. _single. ilm._ ”To emphasise his words, Hades’ tendril entered her slit, thickening to fill her _almost_ as well as his actual cock would have. Bloody vicious tease, he was.

She whined in his ear without an onze of shame, pressing his face into her supple bosom. Hades, bless him, was kind enough to find her clit with a second tendril of shadow that was rough and humming with aether. Melinoia had to bite the inside of her cheek and bury her face in Hades’ snowy white hair to muffle the shrieking gasp that threatened to tear from her. She could feel the bastard smirking wickedly against her left breast before he took her sensitive, hardened nipple between his teeth, rolling it with his tongue.

Something dark and gentle and powerful brushed up against her mind like a lazy cat demanding attention. She allowed him entrance, her soul curling around his. She could feel the many eons of grief and loneliness that still pierced his heart, but she could also feel the places where those hurts had begun to smooth over and become scar tissue. It brought her a different sort of pleasure to sense the bits of her aether woven into those scars.

Melinoia let out a pathetic whimper when the tendril that was filling her disappeared. She had been so close to release, and Hades damn well knew it.

“Don’t cry, {Little Goddess},” her beloved purred. He rolled her onto her back and clambered over her. He was a silhouette against the backdrop of the pale moon shining through their open window, and she could see the many tendrils that writhed around him. She could also see the outline of his very hard, very large cock, and her mouth went very dry at the thought.

“Changed your mind, {Dark God}?” she hummed, doing her best to sound much more put together than she actually was.

Hades chuckled and dipped his head low to steal her lips once more, while the tip of that beautiful, proud cock of his prodded at her entrance. 

“Mmm…. I decided that I missed spoiling you rotten, {Wandering Star}.”

He punctuated his sentence by pressing into her at a glacier’s pace so that she could feel every ridge and vein of his girth sliding against her slick walls. She came with a mewling whine when he brushed past her g-spot. It caused a literal miniature shower of sparkling stars above their heads. Hades just kept going until he was seated fully.

“You’ve always been good at that,” she panted.

“What can I say? Something about seeing you writhe beneath me just saps my control. Perhaps it’s the way your hair fans out like the rays of a blood-red sun, or the sounds you make while I drive myself into you over and over, or the look in those mischievous moon-silver eyes; regardless, I cannot help but spoil you, even when you do silly, reckless things.”

He emphasised every sentence, every note of praise that tumbles from his honeyed tongue, with a slow and luxurious thrust that left Melinoia gasping for air and thought. She begged him for more before she could even stop herself.

Hades complied with a wicked grin.

Sparks flew in Melinoia’s veins every time their bodies and souls collided. Pleasure washed over her again and again like waves crashing on a beach during a maelstrom, and she came on his cock another two times before she felt his movements becoming ragged and erratic, signalling his own imminent climax. They moved as one unit, one soul, one body, dragging noises of sensual delight from one another. When he finally stilled in her and released scalding strings of come in her, she wailed her own final orgasm. They held each other close, their souls as intertwined as their limbs. They breathed as one. It felt like the most natural thing in all the worlds, like coming home after a long trip.

At last, they broke apart, panting and sweaty and covered in the physical remnants of their passions. Neither particularly cared.

“Does this mean I’m forgiven for waking you?” Melinoia murmured against the sweat-slick skin of Hades’ shoulder.

Hades sighed and pressed a tender kiss to the top of her auburn head. “Yes, I suppose I’ll forgive you this time, my darling Meli.”

She hummed through a yawn, smiling.

“I really think that this is the key we’ve been searching for. I think that we’ve been focusing on the wrong person. We should be focusing on G’raha Tia instead of on Khione.”

“The theory definitely has its merits, but how do you propose we ‘cleanse’ G’raha Tia of the curse? The reports coming out of Il Mheg indicate that he, especially, has silenced his mortal self, so I doubt that mere words will be enough.”

Melinoia chewed on her lip for a moment, thinking.

“We physically cleanse him. Use magic to forcibly silence the Fae part of him so that the mortal side can break through.”

Hades sighed in exasperation. “That’s quite easier said than done, I’m afraid. How does one even weaken on part of the spirit while strengthening the other?”

“Magic. I never said it would be easy, but there’s got to be a way. I say we go consult the Anamnesis tomorrow. I’m sure this isn’t the first time such a situation has come up.”

Hades was so quiet for so long, Melinoia worried that he’d fallen asleep.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try,” he finally groaned. “For once, I wish we had Hythlodaeus with us as well.”

Melinoia nodded, snuggling closer. “Me too.”

They said nothing else, both lost in their own thoughts.

The next morning found both Ancients downing coffee like it was their job.

“You’ll send word if you find anything that might be of use, yes?” Beq Lugg huffed, frowning at the dark circles under Hades’ eyes.

“You’ll be the first to know,” Melinoia chirped with an enthusiastic nod. It seemed to satisfy the Nu Mou, who stepped back as Hades opened a shadowy portal.

Melinoia prayed that they found anything of use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pronunciation Guide
> 
> Cailleach: Cal-hee-ahckh
> 
> Khione: Kshee-OH-nee (the Ksch should basically be the K sound followed by the briefest hint of the sh/ch sound)
> 
> Bodach: Bo-DAHCKH
> 
> Crùn a ’Gheamhraidh: I honestly don't know how to pronounce this, but it translates to "Crown of Winter"
> 
> Melinoia: Meh-lee-noiee-uh (noiee should be pronounced kinda quickly, with the oi sound being very very brief and soft)
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed! Thanks for reading!
> 
> If you're a writer and/or reader of FFXIV fanfiction, and you want more awesome content, come join us at Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Book Club! https://discord.gg/ShMwvS


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